Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 3: I Still Believe
Timeline: AO323
The King’s Library, with its towering shelves of blackwood and endless rows of ancient tomes, was an imposing fortress of knowledge. Outside of the city of Chaldea (which was itself the largest library in the kingdom), the Kon-Herr’s book depository was expansive. Yet tonight silence reigned – the atmosphere heavy and oppressive, save for the occasional rustle of a page, as Hacktor Derkillez methodically turned through the volumes of the Kronkiklz. The library had been cleared for him and no scribes or scholars dared linger when the Kon-Herr wished to be alone.
In spite of the passing of years, Hacktor still looked every inch the warrior king. Seated at the stone table, with a flickering fire casting long shadows across his chiseled features, he studied the works laid out before him. His thick, black beard, neatly oiled and braided, glistened in the low light, though streaks of grey now wove through it, reminders of the many battles in The World Above…and here below. His long hair, similarly dark but touched with silver at the temples, was pulled back in a knot, held fast by a simple iron clasp. Despite the growing marks of age, he remained a formidable figure—his broad shoulders filling the space beneath his thick, fur-lined cloak of Rhokki wool, and his muscled arms bulging beneath the worn leather sleeves of his tunic.
His gaze was intense, unwavering as he scanned the pages before him. The books spoke of glory—of past Kon-Herrs and their conquests, of Ajax, Volzung, and so many more. Yet Hacktor was searching for something…deeper. His fingers, calloused from years of wielding weapons, moved across the brittle parchment, as if hoping to find some hidden truth buried within the ancient words. The quiet in the library seemed to press in on him, but he remained steady, driven by a need that even he couldn’t fully explain.
“10,000 goblins felled by Ajax in the Battle of the Broken Lands,” he murmured to himself as he read. “Gidyan I – he sent more than a twice that number to their graves in the Purification Wars…Even Kattryn held the throne for more than four decades.” His voice was low, steady, but there was a fire behind it, a deep well of belief that sustained him through countless campaigns.
The Ghast lay sheathed on the table beside him, the magical blade as sharp as ever. He ran a finger along the length of its haft, reverent and proud. That axe had been his constant companion through every battle, every victory. It was more than a weapon—it was a symbol, an extension of his will, of his power. Forged by Hef Fastuz under the guidance of the gods, it had served Hacktor well in carving a path through his enemies, in writing his own exploits in The Kroniklz – until Oz and his recent failures.
But even now, as he read the history of his ancestors looking for clues, Hacktor’s mind drifted ahead—focused on the future. The spring wars were coming, and with them, a chance to rebuild his legacy. The Derkka still controlled the west, they remained a blight upon his people. To destroy the goblines was not just a military objective—it was his divine mandate. Rhokki himself had decreed it. And Hacktor had spent his life striving toward that one, singular goal: to become the greatest Kon-Herr in the history of the Drokka by utterly eradicating the cursed Derkka and fulfilling the will of the gods. “As if I ever really had a choice?” He nodded in thought.
His black brows furrowed as he then thought of the scribe Grak and his invitation to Chaldea. “Three kingdoms to the south,” Hacktor muttered, frowning. “A fool’s journey when there’s so much work to be done here.” He slammed the book shut with a decisive thud, the sound reverberating through the empty library. His muscles tensed beneath his tunic, his frustration mounting. “There’s no time for distractions. The Derkka are out there, preparing for war. I can’t be wasting days on scholars and riddles.”
Yet, despite his reluctance, there was something gnawing at him. Grak had hinted at knowledge—ancient knowledge that perhaps wasn’t in the King’s Library – something that could give Hacktor the edge he needed to finally finish this war. But leaving now, on the eve of spring? It’s madness. Hacktor rose from the table, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he paced. His cloak trailed behind him, heavy with the weight of his station, of the responsibility he bore for his people. His hands clenched and unclenched as he moved around, as if grasping for something just out of reach.
His belief in his mission was absolute, unshakable. He had stood before his men on countless battlefields, raised his sword high, and invoked the name of Rhokki with each victory. And each time, he had felt the presence of the god—felt the divine will guiding his hand, pushing him forward. He had come so far, accomplished so much. And yet, the Derkka still live, still threaten everything I’ve built. How can I rest until they are no more?
He returned to the table with the books. “The gods have chosen me. I will see this through. I will fulfill my destiny.”
His chest swelled with the certainty of his words, his fists clenched at his sides. There was no room for doubt in Hacktor Derkillez. He was the Kon-Herr, the chosen one. His people depended on him, his soldiers looked to him for leadership, and Rhokki himself had marked him for greatness. The Ghast, that cursed, glorious blade, had tasted the blood of his enemies and sung in his hands. He had broken the Myz Sizor, shattered the gates of Razzyn, destroyed Antarez For, felled the mighty Uruk, and accomplished so much more. What was one loss along the way? It would not stop him. He would destroy the Derkka. He had to!
And yet… there was something. A lingering doubt. Not in himself—never in himself—but in the world around him. Why did the gods not speak more clearly? Why did Rhokki remain silent now, when Hacktor needed guidance the most? The Kronkiklz offered no new insights – at least not the ones he had access to here – for these just told the same tired stories. Was there something in Chaldea that could help him?
He growled low in his throat, frustrated by the uncertainty. “I don’t have time for this.”
[I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard him say that. For Time is exactly what I have as a god – and what Hacktor does not. You see, for all Hacktor’s strength, all his courage, and all his determination, this mighty dwarf king is but a pawn in a game he can’t even begin to understand. His passion is real—his devotion to the gods unshakable—but we gods do not play the same game as you mortals. I enjoy watching him, this would-be conqueror, this Drokka who believes he is chosen by fate – and that much is true – but I also see the inevitable fall. As a mortal he cannot see, he cannot know, that everything he does is merely a part of the tapestry I’ve woven for him. Oh, Hacktor believes he is the master of his destiny – and so I let him struggle, I let him fight, I even let him search for meaning in his life. But in the end, it won’t matter – for his fate is sealed – because I have plans he could never imagine].
A few days later, Hacktor and Hecla were alone together – for in spite of all the pain, all the hurt, and all the jealousy, there was a tie that bound them together that neither could ever break. They needed each other – neither knew how to make things right, yet both of them knew they had to try…
The firelight flickered in the queen’s chambers, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Hacktor was sitting in a large, intricately carved chair near the hearth, the leather creaking under his weight as he leaned back. The room was quiet, with the kind of silence that comes when two people are trapped in the space between love and resentment, unsure which one will surface next.
Hecla stood by her bed, her hands running slowly over the thick velvet blanket as if smoothing it out, though her mind was far from her task. Her emerald eyes traced Hacktor’s figure. He had been her anchor once, her warrior king, the one who could lift her above the storms of any of life’s troubles. But now, there was a distance between them—a chasm that had grown wider with each passing year, with each arrow through the heart of love and loss.
For her part Hecla was still striking, the kind of beauty that didn’t fade with age but deepened, like a fire burning hotter. Her long dark hair, lustrous and rich, framed her sultry face. Her lips, full and slightly parted, seemed to always carry the hint of a secret. She had a way of moving that was almost hypnotic, each step deliberate, every gesture calculated, yet natural. In the firelight, her skin glowed, and her figure, wrapped in a thin silk robe that clung to her curves, was as alluring as ever. She knew how to use her beauty—always had.
Hacktor had once been captivated by her every move, but now, it was as if a fog had settled between them. He could feel her presence, smell the familiar scent of lavender oil she always wore, but her closeness only made him more tense.
“Would you like to talk about Grak’s message?” Hecla said softly, trying to keep her tone gentle, coaxing.
Hacktor’s eyes stayed fixed on the fire, the flames reflecting in the dark depths of his irises. His frame tensed even more at her words. “There’s nothing to discuss. It’s a fool’s errand, and I’ve no interest in playing games with scribes.”
Hecla sighed, biting her lower lip as she moved closer to him, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. She knew what this was really about. It wasn’t just Grak, or Chaldea, or even the war—it was about them. The unspoken struggle for connection, the unyielding tension that had seeped into their lives like poison.
She stood behind him now, placing her hands gently on his broad shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into her touch either. That hurt the queen more than if he had pushed her away.
“Hacktor…” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. “We need this trip. We need time… together. Away from the pressures here.”
Her fingers traced light circles on his neck, trying to coax some softness, some reaction out of him. But Hacktor stayed rigid, as if made of stone. He wanted to relax—he could feel his body yearning for it, the weight of his burdens pulling him down—but the pressure in his mind was relentless.
“Time together?” His voice was low, almost a growl, but not one of anger, more of exhaustion. “And what will that solve, Hecla? We’ve been ‘together’ here for years, and look at us. We barely speak. We barely…” He trailed off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.
Hecla closed her eyes, feeling the sting of his words, but refusing to let them break her. She slid her arms down around his chest, pressing her cheek against the back of his head, her fingers splaying over his heart. She could feel it beating, strong and steady, and yet there was a distance there too—a barrier she couldn’t quite breach.
“It’s because of everything else, Hacktor. The war, the…children, the constant demands… they’ve pulled us apart,” she whispered, her voice heavy with longing. “We’re still us. I know it. I feel it.”
Hacktor closed his eyes briefly, the warmth of her body pressing against him. He wanted to believe her, wanted to lose himself in the simplicity of her touch, the comfort of what they once had. But his mind still resisted and he didn’t know why. Was it the pressures of the kingdom? The failures of the war? The whispers in his own head that told him he would never fulfill his destiny?
Even still, Hacktor reached up and took his wife’s hand, squeezing it lightly. She moved closer to him, but he pulled apart and stood abruptly. He didn’t look at her as he walked toward the fire, staring into the flames.
“Grak’s note is nonsense,” he muttered, his back to her. “He just wants to waste my time with more scribbles and prophecies. We have enough problems here without running off to Chaldea.”
Hecla turned, watching him from across the room, her heart sinking. He was shutting her out…again. She had seen this before—the way he withdrew, retreating into himself, using duty and the burdens of kingship as his shield.
She wrapped her robe tighter around her body, trying to keep the cold at bay, both from the room and from the growing chill in her heart. But she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. She couldn’t. They needed each other, even if Hacktor was too blind to see it.
“Well then,” she said, a hint of steel in her voice, “since you’ll be staying here, you should know Monty Redstone is on your agenda this week.”
Hacktor stiffened at the name but said nothing.
“He wants you to review the treasury numbers,” Hecla continued, her tone light, but with an edge. “And he’s been talking about price hikes for Blackwood. Apparently, the aggrandizement of our coins isn’t enough to keep your coffers full.”
Hacktor turned then, his eyes narrowing. “Monty Redstone,” he spat the name like it was poison. “Of course. Always sniffing for more of our gold.”
Hecla smiled inwardly. She knew she had him now. “Yes, Monty. And if you stay here, you’ll have to deal with him. Personally.”
Hacktor’s jaw worked as he considered her words, the fire behind his eyes returning, but this time with a different focus. Anything to avoid Redstone.
He grunted, walking past her and grabbing his cloak from the chair. “Fine. We’ll go to Chaldea. But this is the last time I let Grak drag me across the kingdom for nothing.”
Hecla exhaled, relief washing over her. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t even close—but it was a step. And for now, that was enough. Her heart still heavy but with a glimmer of hope, however small.
“Thank you, Hacktor,” she said softly, as he moved toward the door.
He didn’t respond, but there was something in the way he paused, just for a moment, before leaving the room. Something that made her think, maybe, just maybe, they could still find their way back to each other.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 